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He also knew who the big bastard was.
And he knew, with a flooding sense of relief, that he was one lucky goddam triggerman if he was really going to get off this easy.
Not many guys ever met Mack Bolan and lived to brag about it.
Yeah. Jack the Schoolteacher was one goddam lucky son of a bitch.
But why? for God's sake why had the guy left him breathing?
A sharp little red and white Cessna came in just ahead of the sunrise to execute a standard landing approach in the Montgomery Field traffic pattern. It touched down smoothly on the main runway, completed a short landing roll and crossed over to the service area, halting at the gas pumps just uprange from the waiting automobile.
One Sammy Simonetti, the lone passenger, stepped outside, then leaned in for a final instruction to the pilot. "After you've gassed up, put her away. We won't be going back until tonight late."
The pilot nodded. "You'll know where to find me."
"Right."
Simonetti was a "courier." He even looked like one, complete to the wrist-manacle attache case which was chained to his right hand.
Two men in airport service-white moved out of the lengthening shadows of the terminal building and intercepted him halfway between plane and car.
"Mr. Simonetti?" the thickset one pleasantly greeted him.
The messenger frowned, but broke stride and replied, "Yeah?" — his eyes flicking toward the waiting vehicle.
The tall man quietly informed him, "Trip ends right here, Sammy."
The ominously-tipped black Beretta showed itself, the muzzle staring up into the courier's eyes.
The other man reached inside of Simonetti's jacket, took his weapon, then nudged him on toward the LTD.
"You guys out of your minds or something?" he asked them in a choked voice. "You know who you're hitting?"
"We know," the tall one assured him. He opened a rear door and shoved the flustered man into the back seat.
The other guy was sliding in from the opposite doorway. He grabbed Simonetti's hand and went to work on the wrist-lock with a small tool.
The captive's eyes were showing panic. He groaned, "Hey, Jesus, don't do this to me. How'm I going to tell Mr. Lucasi about this? I can't go walking in there with a naked arm."
"You'll think of something," the pleasant one replied.
"Look, boys, no shit now. You want to make a score? I mean a real score? Look, leave it alone. There's nothing in here to do you any good. I can steer you to a real score. I mean, millions maybe."
The icy one commanded, "Shut up, Sammy." "Look, you're never going to be able to enjoy it. You know what I mean. You can't just walk up and hit the combination this way. You're dead men the minute you walk away from here. Get smart, hell man. I can steer you — "
The Beretta's silencer had steered itself right into Sammy Simonetti's hardworking mouth. He froze, then made a pleading sound around the new pacifier.
The big guy gave him a moment to get the feel and taste of oral death, then he withdrew the weapon and told the shaken courier, "Not another word."
Simonetti's eyes promised total silence and a moment later the other guy defeated the lock at his wrist.
The guy chuckled and told him, "Count your blessings, buddy. I was about ready to take arm and all."
The hard one placed the car keys in the courier's freed hand and told him, "Look in the trunk. But not right away. You wait awhile."
Simonetti nodded his head in thoroughly cowed silence and the two men in white turned their backs on him and walked around the building and out of sight.
He'd been on the ground less than a minute.
Who would ever believe this?
That slick and that easy, those guys had just clipped the combination for more than a hundred grand.
Nobody would believe that ... especially not Ben Lucasi!
The shaken messenger rattled the car keys in his hand, wondering vaguely what the guy had meant by, "Look in the trunk."
What would he find in there? The remains of Chicano and the Schoolteacher?
Simonetti shivered.
Nobody would believe this.
Then he became aware that something was mixed in with the keys in his hand — he'd thought it to be part of the key ring or something.
But it was definitely not a part of the key ring.
They didn't put marksman's medals on key rings.
A chill ran the entire length of Simonetti's spine and his guts began to quake.
Jesus!
They'd believe it, all right.
Goddammed right they'd believe it!
4
5
6
And he knew, with a flooding sense of relief, that he was one lucky goddam triggerman if he was really going to get off this easy.
Not many guys ever met Mack Bolan and lived to brag about it.
Yeah. Jack the Schoolteacher was one goddam lucky son of a bitch.
But why? for God's sake why had the guy left him breathing?
A sharp little red and white Cessna came in just ahead of the sunrise to execute a standard landing approach in the Montgomery Field traffic pattern. It touched down smoothly on the main runway, completed a short landing roll and crossed over to the service area, halting at the gas pumps just uprange from the waiting automobile.
One Sammy Simonetti, the lone passenger, stepped outside, then leaned in for a final instruction to the pilot. "After you've gassed up, put her away. We won't be going back until tonight late."
The pilot nodded. "You'll know where to find me."
"Right."
Simonetti was a "courier." He even looked like one, complete to the wrist-manacle attache case which was chained to his right hand.
Two men in airport service-white moved out of the lengthening shadows of the terminal building and intercepted him halfway between plane and car.
"Mr. Simonetti?" the thickset one pleasantly greeted him.
The messenger frowned, but broke stride and replied, "Yeah?" — his eyes flicking toward the waiting vehicle.
The tall man quietly informed him, "Trip ends right here, Sammy."
The ominously-tipped black Beretta showed itself, the muzzle staring up into the courier's eyes.
The other man reached inside of Simonetti's jacket, took his weapon, then nudged him on toward the LTD.
"You guys out of your minds or something?" he asked them in a choked voice. "You know who you're hitting?"
"We know," the tall one assured him. He opened a rear door and shoved the flustered man into the back seat.
The other guy was sliding in from the opposite doorway. He grabbed Simonetti's hand and went to work on the wrist-lock with a small tool.
The captive's eyes were showing panic. He groaned, "Hey, Jesus, don't do this to me. How'm I going to tell Mr. Lucasi about this? I can't go walking in there with a naked arm."
"You'll think of something," the pleasant one replied.
"Look, boys, no shit now. You want to make a score? I mean a real score? Look, leave it alone. There's nothing in here to do you any good. I can steer you to a real score. I mean, millions maybe."
The icy one commanded, "Shut up, Sammy." "Look, you're never going to be able to enjoy it. You know what I mean. You can't just walk up and hit the combination this way. You're dead men the minute you walk away from here. Get smart, hell man. I can steer you — "
The Beretta's silencer had steered itself right into Sammy Simonetti's hardworking mouth. He froze, then made a pleading sound around the new pacifier.
The big guy gave him a moment to get the feel and taste of oral death, then he withdrew the weapon and told the shaken courier, "Not another word."
Simonetti's eyes promised total silence and a moment later the other guy defeated the lock at his wrist.
The guy chuckled and told him, "Count your blessings, buddy. I was about ready to take arm and all."
The hard one placed the car keys in the courier's freed hand and told him, "Look in the trunk. But not right away. You wait awhile."
Simonetti nodded his head in thoroughly cowed silence and the two men in white turned their backs on him and walked around the building and out of sight.
He'd been on the ground less than a minute.
Who would ever believe this?
That slick and that easy, those guys had just clipped the combination for more than a hundred grand.
Nobody would believe that ... especially not Ben Lucasi!
The shaken messenger rattled the car keys in his hand, wondering vaguely what the guy had meant by, "Look in the trunk."
What would he find in there? The remains of Chicano and the Schoolteacher?
Simonetti shivered.
Nobody would believe this.
Then he became aware that something was mixed in with the keys in his hand — he'd thought it to be part of the key ring or something.
But it was definitely not a part of the key ring.
They didn't put marksman's medals on key rings.
A chill ran the entire length of Simonetti's spine and his guts began to quake.
Jesus!
They'd believe it, all right.
Goddammed right they'd believe it!
4
The track
The San Diego territory had long been considered a tenderloin area for La Cosa Nostra. This "key" territory — bounded on one side by one of the world's ten greatest natural harbors and on another by the Mexican border — until recently had functioned as an "arm" of the DiGeorge Family, the Los Angeles mob which had already tasted the Executioner's war effort.
With DiGeorge's death and the dissolution of that "family," the national ruling council, La Com-missione, stepped in to administer the syndicate's interests in that area.
Ben Lucasi had been a DiGeorge underboss. He and "Deej" had been longtime friends. He'd hated to see Deej have to go that way ... but in his secret moments, Lucasi would admit that even the darkest cloud usually carried a silver lining.
Under the new setup, Big Ben was practically autonomous — reporting directly to the Commission of Capo's at the national level of government.
San Diego was no longer an "arm" of anything or anybody. San Diego now belonged to Big Ben Lucasi, period. And, yeah, Big Ben (who measured 5'4" even in elevator shoes and weighed-in soaking wet at 120 pounds) liked things a hell of a lot better that way.
He was not, of course, a full-fledged Capo. Not yet. But that honor would come, just like all the other good things had come. The whole California territory was reorganizing itself around San Diego.
One of these days the boys all around the country would be referring to this arm as The Lucasi Family. And why not? Where the money was, that's where the power was — and now that he was no longer getting a lot of jealous bullshit from L.A., Ben Lucasi was mining the San Diego gold like it hadn't been mined since the forty-niners.
What with Agua Caliente a few minutes south and with Las Vegas just a hop over the mountains by plane — hell, a guy would have to have his mind in his balls not to make a goldmine out of that happy circumstance. And the whole goddam fuck-in' U. S. Navy sitting out here at his right hand, running back and forth to the Orient — what kind of a lamebrain wouldn't turn a thing like that to his profit?
Some of the locals were starting to snicker about his "seagoing Mafia." Which was okay. Let them make jokes. Lucasi owned also a "khaki Mafia." Let 'em laugh — that was okay. As long as everybody was laughing there'd be no worry. Meanwhile San Diego was fast becoming the underground capital of the western world, and Ben Lucasi was becoming the most powerful non-Capo anywhere.
The Lucasi home was an unpretentious but modern split-level situated in one of the new neighborhoods near Mission Bay Park. He lived there with his third wife, Dorothy — a 23-year-old ex-showgirl from Las Vegas. Lucasi was 56. He had a daughter, 35, and a son, 32, from his first marriage. The son worked in a casino in Nassau; the daughter, at last report, was somewhere in Europe "with another lousy gigolo."
The first Mrs. Lucasi had died under mysterious circumstances while the children were still quite young, during that era when Bennie was scrambling everywhere for the buck. His criminal record from those early days reveals arrests for pandering, rape, felonious assault, theft, gambling, arson, extortion, intimidation, black-marketeering, manslaughter, and murder. The official FBI report on this very busy criminal enumerated 52 specific charges… with but 2 convictions and 2 suspended sentences.
He had spent a combined total of 66 days behind bars.
His last arrest had occurred in 1944, on a black-marketing charge.
Lucasi had come west at the end of the war, settling first in Reno, Nevada for a few years, then on to Las Vegas when the boom began there. In the late fifties he relocated to San Francisco, later gravitating to Los Angeles for a lieutenancy under Julian DiGeorge, who eventually sent him on to San Diego to boss that arm of the family.
So, sure. Except for a few nervous moments here and there, the world was looking rosy indeed for this late-blooming syndicate boss. The nervous moments came from increased anti-crime activity at the federal level — the damned Strike Forces — and a growing awareness among local citizens regarding the interconnections between the straight and the kinky communities.
And, of course, there was that Bolan bastard.
Bolan had almost torn things for good when he went on the warpath against Deej. The repercussions from that conflict had been felt clear down into San Diego ... and to points beyond. Lucasi himself had been enroute to Palm Springs when Bolan finally lowered the boom on DiGeorge there. And he'd seen, at first hand, the aftermath of a Mack Bolan hit. Yeah, he still had nightmares sometimes over what he'd seen at Palm Springs.
Goddamn how relieved Bennie had been when Bolan started churning up the turf back east.
Lucasi had thought he was rid of the bastard.
The son of a bitch had been everywhere. He'd hit Miami. He'd hit, for Christ's sake, even over in France and England — and for damn sure Bennie had thought the guy would stay over there somewhere and lay low.
Like hell he did. He hit the five family area, New York, like some crazy avenging angel, and just tore the living shit out of that place. All five families!
Ben had thought, then, well okay. Go ahead, you crazy bastard. Keep living like that and you won't survive to head west again.
Lucasi had been wrong about that, too.
He'd almost prayed that the guy would try Chicago. Yeah, hit Chi now ... try your luck on a real town.
And the son of a bitch did it. And the "real town" folded just like all the others.
Lucasi had begun to feel that this Bolan had some sort of special decree from God or something. No guy — not no guy who is one hundred percent mortal — could get away with that kind of shit forever.
So then the guy went into Lucasi's old home base, the town the whole mob loved — Vegas — and Christ, what monkeys he'd made of them all in Vegas.
So, sure. There had to be something eerie about the guy.
Worst of all, the big bastard in Executioner black was west again … and Lucasi doubled his palace guard and went nowhere without a heavy escort of bodyguards.
Then the guy bobs up down in Puerto Rico ... of all the damned places ... but before Lucasi could start breathing naturally again, there the bastard was up in Frisco and tearing hell out of California again.
It was too much.
Lucasi took a quick vacation to Honolulu.
When he returned, Bolan was back east again, romping through Boston first and then tearing through Washington.
No guy should get away with that much.
No one hundred percent mortal.
If somebody didn't stop him pretty soon, he'd be chewing up San Diego one of these days.
And, sure, Bennie Lucasi had a lot of nervous moments.
How did you stop someone like that?
Lucasi had taken to reading up on black magic, ESP, mind control ... all that. He dipped briefly into Yoga — trying to find Bolan's secret.
He even went to confession at that little mission down on the coast.
The poor hayseed priest had thought Lucasi was bullshitting him. Bawled him out good for playing games with the confession box.
Lucasi lit a candle at that mission, just the same.
That cock Bolan would be trying San Diego sooner or later ... no doubt about that.
Lucasi had to be ready for him. He had to — somewhere, somehow — find the edge that would equalize Bolan.
He'd been trying. God, he'd tried everything.
And now it seemed that his preparation time had run out.
Sammy Simonetti was standing right there in his living room and handing him the most feared symbol which Ben Lucasi ever expected to see.
A fuckin' marksman's medal.
In a strangely quiet voice, he asked Sammy, "You bringing me this instead of my hundred thou?"
Simonetti was sweating, overly-defensive. "I swear to hell, Mr. Lucasi, the guy just — "
"Where'd you say he hit you?" the chieftain interrupted in that same deadened voice. "Vegas?"
"No sir, right out here on this end, at the airport."
"Where the hell is my black milk, Sammy?"
"Jesus, I told you. He took it."
"You still got both arms, I see."
"Yessir, they didn't hardly put a mark on me. That's what I can't understand. They didn't hurt Chicano and Schoolteacher either. Just locked 'em in the trunk of the car."
"They who?" Lucasi muttered.
"Bolan and his triggerman."
"Bolan don't use no triggermen," Lucasi said quickly, a hint of fire returning to his voice.
"He did this time. There were two of them. Come up on me just like a couple of goddamn shadows. I didn't know from nothing, boss. Just ail of a sudden here was this damn Beretta looking down my throat."
"The guy works alone, you dumb shit!" Lucasi shouted. "Now you get your story straight!"
"Jesus, I swear, it happened just like I said," Simonetti moaned.
Lucasi turned his back on the courier and, to no one in particular, commanded, "Take Sammy outside and get his story straight."
A large man who had been lurking near the door opened it and gave the nod to Simonetti. "Let's go," he growled.
The black-money courier's eyes rolled; he started to give an emotional protest to the boss, then quickly changed his mind and stumbled out the door. Another man fell in behind him, solemnly pulling the door closed behind their exit.
Lucasi was flipping the marksman's medal like a coin, staring past it unseeingly, his eyes characteristically locked into a dead focus while his mind whirred.
Presently he said, quietly, "Somebody could be shooting us full of juice, Diver."
The large man at the door, Lucasi's house captain, replied, "Could be. I been wondering when somebody would try something like that. Those marksman's medals can be picked up most anywhere."
"It doesn't sound like a Bolan hit," Lucasi said.
"No, it don't, Ben."
"You were back east last month. How many of the boys did you run into?"
The large man shrugged. "I guess a dozen or two. Why?"
"New York boys?"
The man nodded. "Yeah. Them too."
"Did you talk to one — just one— who'd ever seen Bolan face to face?"
The big man just grinned.
"Of course you didn't," Lucasi said, smirking. "The only boys who've seen Bolan, you'd have to go to hell to talk to them. Right?"
The house captain jerked his head in agreement. "He don't fuck around much, the way I hear it. He just hits and splits, and when he's gone, there ain't nobody around to tell what happened."
"Exactly." Lucasi tossed the medal again and deliberately let it fall to the floor. "So who's got my goddamn hundred thou, Diver?"
"It sounds fishy, all right," the captain agreed.
"You go out and help talk to Sammy."
The large man grinned sourly and went out.
Lucasi lit a cigar and worked furiously at it until the tip was glowing fiercely, then he walked stiffly out of the room, along a short hallway to his sleeping quarters.
He went directly to the bed and whipped the covers away from the nude woman who was sleeping there. He yelled, "Outta that rack, you lazy bitch!"
Dorothy Lucasi sleepily sat up, swinging the long Vegas-showgirl legs over the side of the bed. "Are you crazy, Bennie?" she inquired in a practiced monotone. She often asked him that, in the same tone of voice.
His wife stood a full head taller than Lucasi. He glowered at her as she lurched to her feet and looked about dazedly for her dressing gown. Instead of helping her find the wrap, he yelled, "Yeah, I'm crazy to have married a floozy like you!" Lucasi often said that, also.
"You get some clothes on that million dollar meat and hustle it into the kitchen. It's seven o'clock and I goddammit want something to eat!"
She was sleepily complaining, "Why can't Frenchy fix … ?" when her chin dropped and the words quit coming.
Lucasi thought at first that she was looking at him in some new way he'd never yet seen, then he knew that her transfixed gaze was going beyond him and onto something behind him.
A chill seized his spine and shook it, and he turned slowly to find the object of his wife's rarely undiluted attention.
A big tall guy was just standing there against the wall, next to the window — and he must have been there all the while. He was dressed all in black, with guns and belts and things strapped all over him, and that face was like carved out of Mount Rushmore, except for the peculiarly hot-icy eyes that smouldered out of that deepfreeze.
Yeah. Bolan had come to town, all right.
Lucasi felt himself crumbling inside.
His voice sounded high and squeaky to himself as he told the impressive apparition in black, "So. Sammy had it straight."
The guy wasn't even holding a gun on him ... the wise cock. He was just standing there, sort of relaxed, staring a hole through Ben Lucasi.
The seconds ticked away, silently. Dorothy sat back down on the bed and modestly covered her lap with a sheet. It was the first act of modesty on her part that Ben Lucasi had ever been aware of. He found himself wondering about the effect this guy had on the dames.
Presently Lucasi cleared his throat and said, "Uh, what do you want, eh?"
"Harlan Winters," the guy replied, and it was a voice straight out of hell.
"Who?" the Mafia chieftain nervously inquired.
Dorothy giggled, like some nut. "Harlie Winters," she said, very helpfully.
"He ain't here," Lucasi declared quickly, wishing he could bust that broad right in the nose.
"He's dead," the big guy said.
Lucasi whispered, "God I'm sorry, I didn't know that."
"Friend of yours?"
The guy sure didn't use many words.
"Uh, well... in a way. We, uh ... met once or twice." He snapped a quick glance toward his wife. She was wearing a shocked face. He hoped to God she'd keep her flannel mouth shut and he kept right on talking to edge her out, just in case.
"Winters was a nice man, God — that's terrible. How'd he die?"
"The hard way," the cold voice intoned. "Scattered all over his study."
Lucasi shivered. What kind of cat and mouse game was this? Why God why had he sent Diver and the other boys outside to ask dumb questions of poor Sammy?
So, he had to stall the guy as long as possible, that was the only thing left. God, he didn't even have a gun in here.
He took a deep breath and said, "Look, I don't know why you're coming telling me this. Uh ... you're Bolan, right? I knew that, I knew it right away. Look man, you're barking up a hollow tree this time. I got no beef with you at all, nothing. So you knocked over one of my messengers, okay. Hell with it, easy come easy go, that's the way I look at it. I mean, I got no beef. So you hit this Harlan Winters, okay, like I said, I met 'im once or twice, no big deal. No beef. Now, way I see it...."
Bolan said, "Save your breath." The cold gaze flicked to a watch at his wrist. "You've got twenty seconds."
"For what?" Lucasi cried.
"I'm looking for tracks, Bennie."
"What kind of tracks?"
"Who wanted Winters dead?"
"What? You mean you didn't ... ?"
"I didn't," the icy bastard clipped back. "Who did?"
Lucasi passed a shaking hand over his face. He sighed. Then he said, "Hell, I can't imagine. Why don't you ask Thornton. Maxwell Thornton, the big shot. Yeah. Ask him."
Bolan assured him, "I will." Another quick glance at the wristwatch, then, "You and the lady get out of here. Close the door behind you."
"You mean that's ... ?"
"Yeah, that's all for now." Something that might have been a smile flickered across those cold features. "Be seeing you, Bennie."
Lucasi muttered, "Yeah," in a choked voice as he grabbed Dorothy and shoved her out the door. He followed quickly and pulled the door firmly shut, then he left her standing there stupid naked in the hallway and ran shouting into the main part of the house.
Then he saw them through the sliding glass doors to the patio — all his boys — with their tails on the cement and their hands clasped atop their heads.
A couple other guys, dressed just like Bolan, were just then disappearing over the wall... and Ben Lucasi knew that he had been very neatly had all the way.
The son of a bitch had just walked in and taken over!
And for what?
For what tracks?
His goddamn khaki Mafia, for God's sake!
But what tracks?
With DiGeorge's death and the dissolution of that "family," the national ruling council, La Com-missione, stepped in to administer the syndicate's interests in that area.
Ben Lucasi had been a DiGeorge underboss. He and "Deej" had been longtime friends. He'd hated to see Deej have to go that way ... but in his secret moments, Lucasi would admit that even the darkest cloud usually carried a silver lining.
Under the new setup, Big Ben was practically autonomous — reporting directly to the Commission of Capo's at the national level of government.
San Diego was no longer an "arm" of anything or anybody. San Diego now belonged to Big Ben Lucasi, period. And, yeah, Big Ben (who measured 5'4" even in elevator shoes and weighed-in soaking wet at 120 pounds) liked things a hell of a lot better that way.
He was not, of course, a full-fledged Capo. Not yet. But that honor would come, just like all the other good things had come. The whole California territory was reorganizing itself around San Diego.
One of these days the boys all around the country would be referring to this arm as The Lucasi Family. And why not? Where the money was, that's where the power was — and now that he was no longer getting a lot of jealous bullshit from L.A., Ben Lucasi was mining the San Diego gold like it hadn't been mined since the forty-niners.
What with Agua Caliente a few minutes south and with Las Vegas just a hop over the mountains by plane — hell, a guy would have to have his mind in his balls not to make a goldmine out of that happy circumstance. And the whole goddam fuck-in' U. S. Navy sitting out here at his right hand, running back and forth to the Orient — what kind of a lamebrain wouldn't turn a thing like that to his profit?
Some of the locals were starting to snicker about his "seagoing Mafia." Which was okay. Let them make jokes. Lucasi owned also a "khaki Mafia." Let 'em laugh — that was okay. As long as everybody was laughing there'd be no worry. Meanwhile San Diego was fast becoming the underground capital of the western world, and Ben Lucasi was becoming the most powerful non-Capo anywhere.
The Lucasi home was an unpretentious but modern split-level situated in one of the new neighborhoods near Mission Bay Park. He lived there with his third wife, Dorothy — a 23-year-old ex-showgirl from Las Vegas. Lucasi was 56. He had a daughter, 35, and a son, 32, from his first marriage. The son worked in a casino in Nassau; the daughter, at last report, was somewhere in Europe "with another lousy gigolo."
The first Mrs. Lucasi had died under mysterious circumstances while the children were still quite young, during that era when Bennie was scrambling everywhere for the buck. His criminal record from those early days reveals arrests for pandering, rape, felonious assault, theft, gambling, arson, extortion, intimidation, black-marketeering, manslaughter, and murder. The official FBI report on this very busy criminal enumerated 52 specific charges… with but 2 convictions and 2 suspended sentences.
He had spent a combined total of 66 days behind bars.
His last arrest had occurred in 1944, on a black-marketing charge.
Lucasi had come west at the end of the war, settling first in Reno, Nevada for a few years, then on to Las Vegas when the boom began there. In the late fifties he relocated to San Francisco, later gravitating to Los Angeles for a lieutenancy under Julian DiGeorge, who eventually sent him on to San Diego to boss that arm of the family.
So, sure. Except for a few nervous moments here and there, the world was looking rosy indeed for this late-blooming syndicate boss. The nervous moments came from increased anti-crime activity at the federal level — the damned Strike Forces — and a growing awareness among local citizens regarding the interconnections between the straight and the kinky communities.
And, of course, there was that Bolan bastard.
Bolan had almost torn things for good when he went on the warpath against Deej. The repercussions from that conflict had been felt clear down into San Diego ... and to points beyond. Lucasi himself had been enroute to Palm Springs when Bolan finally lowered the boom on DiGeorge there. And he'd seen, at first hand, the aftermath of a Mack Bolan hit. Yeah, he still had nightmares sometimes over what he'd seen at Palm Springs.
Goddamn how relieved Bennie had been when Bolan started churning up the turf back east.
Lucasi had thought he was rid of the bastard.
The son of a bitch had been everywhere. He'd hit Miami. He'd hit, for Christ's sake, even over in France and England — and for damn sure Bennie had thought the guy would stay over there somewhere and lay low.
Like hell he did. He hit the five family area, New York, like some crazy avenging angel, and just tore the living shit out of that place. All five families!
Ben had thought, then, well okay. Go ahead, you crazy bastard. Keep living like that and you won't survive to head west again.
Lucasi had been wrong about that, too.
He'd almost prayed that the guy would try Chicago. Yeah, hit Chi now ... try your luck on a real town.
And the son of a bitch did it. And the "real town" folded just like all the others.
Lucasi had begun to feel that this Bolan had some sort of special decree from God or something. No guy — not no guy who is one hundred percent mortal — could get away with that kind of shit forever.
So then the guy went into Lucasi's old home base, the town the whole mob loved — Vegas — and Christ, what monkeys he'd made of them all in Vegas.
So, sure. There had to be something eerie about the guy.
Worst of all, the big bastard in Executioner black was west again … and Lucasi doubled his palace guard and went nowhere without a heavy escort of bodyguards.
Then the guy bobs up down in Puerto Rico ... of all the damned places ... but before Lucasi could start breathing naturally again, there the bastard was up in Frisco and tearing hell out of California again.
It was too much.
Lucasi took a quick vacation to Honolulu.
When he returned, Bolan was back east again, romping through Boston first and then tearing through Washington.
No guy should get away with that much.
No one hundred percent mortal.
If somebody didn't stop him pretty soon, he'd be chewing up San Diego one of these days.
And, sure, Bennie Lucasi had a lot of nervous moments.
How did you stop someone like that?
Lucasi had taken to reading up on black magic, ESP, mind control ... all that. He dipped briefly into Yoga — trying to find Bolan's secret.
He even went to confession at that little mission down on the coast.
The poor hayseed priest had thought Lucasi was bullshitting him. Bawled him out good for playing games with the confession box.
Lucasi lit a candle at that mission, just the same.
That cock Bolan would be trying San Diego sooner or later ... no doubt about that.
Lucasi had to be ready for him. He had to — somewhere, somehow — find the edge that would equalize Bolan.
He'd been trying. God, he'd tried everything.
And now it seemed that his preparation time had run out.
Sammy Simonetti was standing right there in his living room and handing him the most feared symbol which Ben Lucasi ever expected to see.
A fuckin' marksman's medal.
In a strangely quiet voice, he asked Sammy, "You bringing me this instead of my hundred thou?"
Simonetti was sweating, overly-defensive. "I swear to hell, Mr. Lucasi, the guy just — "
"Where'd you say he hit you?" the chieftain interrupted in that same deadened voice. "Vegas?"
"No sir, right out here on this end, at the airport."
"Where the hell is my black milk, Sammy?"
"Jesus, I told you. He took it."
"You still got both arms, I see."
"Yessir, they didn't hardly put a mark on me. That's what I can't understand. They didn't hurt Chicano and Schoolteacher either. Just locked 'em in the trunk of the car."
"They who?" Lucasi muttered.
"Bolan and his triggerman."
"Bolan don't use no triggermen," Lucasi said quickly, a hint of fire returning to his voice.
"He did this time. There were two of them. Come up on me just like a couple of goddamn shadows. I didn't know from nothing, boss. Just ail of a sudden here was this damn Beretta looking down my throat."
"The guy works alone, you dumb shit!" Lucasi shouted. "Now you get your story straight!"
"Jesus, I swear, it happened just like I said," Simonetti moaned.
Lucasi turned his back on the courier and, to no one in particular, commanded, "Take Sammy outside and get his story straight."
A large man who had been lurking near the door opened it and gave the nod to Simonetti. "Let's go," he growled.
The black-money courier's eyes rolled; he started to give an emotional protest to the boss, then quickly changed his mind and stumbled out the door. Another man fell in behind him, solemnly pulling the door closed behind their exit.
Lucasi was flipping the marksman's medal like a coin, staring past it unseeingly, his eyes characteristically locked into a dead focus while his mind whirred.
Presently he said, quietly, "Somebody could be shooting us full of juice, Diver."
The large man at the door, Lucasi's house captain, replied, "Could be. I been wondering when somebody would try something like that. Those marksman's medals can be picked up most anywhere."
"It doesn't sound like a Bolan hit," Lucasi said.
"No, it don't, Ben."
"You were back east last month. How many of the boys did you run into?"
The large man shrugged. "I guess a dozen or two. Why?"
"New York boys?"
The man nodded. "Yeah. Them too."
"Did you talk to one — just one— who'd ever seen Bolan face to face?"
The big man just grinned.
"Of course you didn't," Lucasi said, smirking. "The only boys who've seen Bolan, you'd have to go to hell to talk to them. Right?"
The house captain jerked his head in agreement. "He don't fuck around much, the way I hear it. He just hits and splits, and when he's gone, there ain't nobody around to tell what happened."
"Exactly." Lucasi tossed the medal again and deliberately let it fall to the floor. "So who's got my goddamn hundred thou, Diver?"
"It sounds fishy, all right," the captain agreed.
"You go out and help talk to Sammy."
The large man grinned sourly and went out.
Lucasi lit a cigar and worked furiously at it until the tip was glowing fiercely, then he walked stiffly out of the room, along a short hallway to his sleeping quarters.
He went directly to the bed and whipped the covers away from the nude woman who was sleeping there. He yelled, "Outta that rack, you lazy bitch!"
Dorothy Lucasi sleepily sat up, swinging the long Vegas-showgirl legs over the side of the bed. "Are you crazy, Bennie?" she inquired in a practiced monotone. She often asked him that, in the same tone of voice.
His wife stood a full head taller than Lucasi. He glowered at her as she lurched to her feet and looked about dazedly for her dressing gown. Instead of helping her find the wrap, he yelled, "Yeah, I'm crazy to have married a floozy like you!" Lucasi often said that, also.
"You get some clothes on that million dollar meat and hustle it into the kitchen. It's seven o'clock and I goddammit want something to eat!"
She was sleepily complaining, "Why can't Frenchy fix … ?" when her chin dropped and the words quit coming.
Lucasi thought at first that she was looking at him in some new way he'd never yet seen, then he knew that her transfixed gaze was going beyond him and onto something behind him.
A chill seized his spine and shook it, and he turned slowly to find the object of his wife's rarely undiluted attention.
A big tall guy was just standing there against the wall, next to the window — and he must have been there all the while. He was dressed all in black, with guns and belts and things strapped all over him, and that face was like carved out of Mount Rushmore, except for the peculiarly hot-icy eyes that smouldered out of that deepfreeze.
Yeah. Bolan had come to town, all right.
Lucasi felt himself crumbling inside.
His voice sounded high and squeaky to himself as he told the impressive apparition in black, "So. Sammy had it straight."
The guy wasn't even holding a gun on him ... the wise cock. He was just standing there, sort of relaxed, staring a hole through Ben Lucasi.
The seconds ticked away, silently. Dorothy sat back down on the bed and modestly covered her lap with a sheet. It was the first act of modesty on her part that Ben Lucasi had ever been aware of. He found himself wondering about the effect this guy had on the dames.
Presently Lucasi cleared his throat and said, "Uh, what do you want, eh?"
"Harlan Winters," the guy replied, and it was a voice straight out of hell.
"Who?" the Mafia chieftain nervously inquired.
Dorothy giggled, like some nut. "Harlie Winters," she said, very helpfully.
"He ain't here," Lucasi declared quickly, wishing he could bust that broad right in the nose.
"He's dead," the big guy said.
Lucasi whispered, "God I'm sorry, I didn't know that."
"Friend of yours?"
The guy sure didn't use many words.
"Uh, well... in a way. We, uh ... met once or twice." He snapped a quick glance toward his wife. She was wearing a shocked face. He hoped to God she'd keep her flannel mouth shut and he kept right on talking to edge her out, just in case.
"Winters was a nice man, God — that's terrible. How'd he die?"
"The hard way," the cold voice intoned. "Scattered all over his study."
Lucasi shivered. What kind of cat and mouse game was this? Why God why had he sent Diver and the other boys outside to ask dumb questions of poor Sammy?
So, he had to stall the guy as long as possible, that was the only thing left. God, he didn't even have a gun in here.
He took a deep breath and said, "Look, I don't know why you're coming telling me this. Uh ... you're Bolan, right? I knew that, I knew it right away. Look man, you're barking up a hollow tree this time. I got no beef with you at all, nothing. So you knocked over one of my messengers, okay. Hell with it, easy come easy go, that's the way I look at it. I mean, I got no beef. So you hit this Harlan Winters, okay, like I said, I met 'im once or twice, no big deal. No beef. Now, way I see it...."
Bolan said, "Save your breath." The cold gaze flicked to a watch at his wrist. "You've got twenty seconds."
"For what?" Lucasi cried.
"I'm looking for tracks, Bennie."
"What kind of tracks?"
"Who wanted Winters dead?"
"What? You mean you didn't ... ?"
"I didn't," the icy bastard clipped back. "Who did?"
Lucasi passed a shaking hand over his face. He sighed. Then he said, "Hell, I can't imagine. Why don't you ask Thornton. Maxwell Thornton, the big shot. Yeah. Ask him."
Bolan assured him, "I will." Another quick glance at the wristwatch, then, "You and the lady get out of here. Close the door behind you."
"You mean that's ... ?"
"Yeah, that's all for now." Something that might have been a smile flickered across those cold features. "Be seeing you, Bennie."
Lucasi muttered, "Yeah," in a choked voice as he grabbed Dorothy and shoved her out the door. He followed quickly and pulled the door firmly shut, then he left her standing there stupid naked in the hallway and ran shouting into the main part of the house.
Then he saw them through the sliding glass doors to the patio — all his boys — with their tails on the cement and their hands clasped atop their heads.
A couple other guys, dressed just like Bolan, were just then disappearing over the wall... and Ben Lucasi knew that he had been very neatly had all the way.
The son of a bitch had just walked in and taken over!
And for what?
For what tracks?
His goddamn khaki Mafia, for God's sake!
But what tracks?
5
The mission
They had departed the Lucasi neighborhood on diverging routes and regrouped ten minutes later on a bluff overlooking Mission Bay Park, the city's most popular water playground.
Blancanales still drove the bread truck he'd used in scouting the Winters home. Schwarz had coverted Bolan's "warwagon," a Ford Econoline van, into a mobile electronics workshop — and this remained as his base of operations.
Bolan himself was driving a "hot scout" — a speedy, high-maneuverable, European sports car.
This was their first chance to regroup and report since the hit on Sammy Simonetti at the airport. Each man dismounted from his vehicle and they held a council of war beside Bolan's roadrunner while they pulled concealing coveralls over their combat outfits.
"Sammy's bread is in the bread truck," Blancanales reported, grinning. "It counts out to exactly a hundred and five thousand. What do I do with it?"
"Keep it for the warchest," Bolan replied. "That's one of your problems for this operation. Anything Gadgets and I need, we'll come to you. You make all the buys. Less chancey that way."
Blancanales nodded. "Okay. How'd it go in Lucasi's palace?"
"Damn near disastrous," Bolan said. "The little man walked in while I was sounding his bedroom. You guys did a neat job outside, thanks. Probably saved the day."
"Did you get the bedroom bug planted?" Schwarz wondered.
"Yeah." The man from blood smiled. "In the headboard of his bed, while his wife slept. He's married to a kid ... but oh, what a kid!"
Blancanales snickered. "Maybe we could sell the tapes to an underground movie outfit."
Schwarz, all business, wanted to know, "Where'd you put the relay stations?"
"Window ledges, outside," Bolan reported. "All aligned at one-five-zero magnetic, per your instructions."
"Then we should have him snookered," Schwarz said. The gadgets-genius glanced at his watch and jotted a note in his surveillance log. "I'll have to cruise by and drain those storage banks in four hours. That's maximum storage, sorry."
Bolan had to grin. It was typical of Gadgets Schwarz to be "sorry" that he could not improve upon perfection. The little devices which he'd designed and built for this job were just about the ultimate in electronics surveillance, to Bolan's mind.
The pickup unit, consisting of a mike and a miniature radio transmitter, was about the size of a lady's wristwatch. The life in the tiny power cell was sufficient to provide 72 hours of continuous operation.
The "relay station," somewhat bulkier but still small enough for easy concealment, received and recorded the continuous broadcast from the pickup unit.
Upon command, the transmitter in the relay station would "unreel" the entire recording disc in about sixty seconds. That command would come from Schwarz's mobile console in the warwagon; he could cruise casually past the house once each four hours and "collect" the intelligence stored in the relay station ... four hours of electronic surveillance compressed into a sixty-second transmission keyed from the warwagon.
The re-recording, appropriately slowed and automatically performed within the master console, screened out all the silent zones or 'lapses" in the four-hour recording, preserving only the "audibles" for fast monitoring in the re-play. And Gadgets was "sorry" about that. They had followed Sammy Simonetti from the airport and used the courier's unhappy arrival at the Lucasi household as a diversion for their own penetration.
While Lucasi and his palace guard focused on the implications of Simonetti's busted play, Able Team slipped quietly in and wired the whole joint for sound.
"You've got four relays plus the phone tap," Bolan reminded Schwarz. "Can you collect them all on one pass?"
"No," Schwarz told him. "I could probably squeeze in two per pass but I'd rather not. A hundred yards is about the maximum reliable range for those relays. That gives me a hundred coming and a hundred going away, strict line-of-sight. I read that as one collection per pass, unless I just pull up and park."
"Pull up and park, then," Bolan suggested. "Change a tire, fiddle with your engine — anything that will cover. But I don't like five times past that house in the same vehicle."
"Okay, I'll park and drain," Schwarz agreed.
"Pol, you stay on Lucasi. Keep a log on his every move outside that house."
"You'll have it," Blancanales quietly replied.
"Did you get those zoom lenses for the camera?"
The Politician nodded his head in reply. "I could probably get a flea from a block away."
"Great. Try to get a picture of every one entering that house, plus every one he meets away from the house. Unless you're really tied into something fantastic, we meet back here in exactly four hours."
"What do I do in the meantime?" Gadgets wondered. "So far I've got a five minute job."
"Run over and drain the phone tap at Howlin' Marian's," Bolan instructed him. 'If you pick up something useful there, don't save it. Beep me on Able Channel."
"Okay. Where will you be?"
"I think I'll be at the Mission Bay marina."
"Who do we know there?" Politican asked.
Bolan smiled. "I hear that Tony Danger keeps a deep-water boat berthed there."
"I guess I never heard of Tony Danger," the Politician murmured.
"One of Lucasi's lieutenants," Bolan explained. "Narcotics, mainly."
"That's the guy," Schwarz commented, "was supposed to get the hundred grand."
"That's him," Bolan confirmed. "I believe he was setting up for a buy. Heroin or cocaine, probably. They usually time the black money shipments for a fast in and out. And I saw Tony Danger at Lucasi's awhile ago, pacing around and wringing his hands over the loss of that shipment. He was wearing a yachting cap."
Blancanales chuckled. "That was Tony Danger, eh?"
"That was him."
"He turned green when I laid that autopistol on him."
"When he's got it all together he can be pretty mean," Bolan warned. "He was one of DiGeorge's favorite triggermen."
Schwarz was wearing a faint frown. He asked, "How does all this tie into the colonel?"
"Maybe not at all," Bolan replied. "I'm just hoping to stir the pot a bit. No telling what might float up off the bottom."
Blancanales suggested, "Maybe some very straight big daddy with a dirty backside."
Bolan nodded. "That's what I'm hoping for. A hell of a lot of mob money is moving into the legit pipelines in this town. That's what put Winco in business ... black money. But it didn't move directly from Lucasi to Winters. There's a middleman somewhere, a guy with plenty of clout. If we're going to find Howlin' Marian's lost soul, then we've first got to find the Big Middle."
"Okay, I guess that makes sense," Schwarz said.
"The same guy is providing the umbrella for Lucasi and his hoods," Blancanales added.
"Probably," Bolan said. "It takes a certain kind of environment to support a Mafia entrenchment. If you find that entrenchment, then you know the environment is there also. So well try to knock some holes in the entrenchment. Maybe well get a glimpse of the environment as it rushes in to plug the holes."
"This is different than the L.A. operation," Schwarz decided.
"Quite a bit," Bolan agreed. "L.A. is a big roaring city, liberal, free-wheeling. That's enough natural environment right there to cover routine mob operations. This is a different sort of environment. Much smaller. Conservative, strong civic spirit, a proud town. Somebody in a position of power and trust within that establishment has to be dirty if the mob is operating here on the scale I suspect."
"Or maybe a bunch of somebodies," Blancanales growled.
"Maybe. Whoever or how many, we have to shake them up, get them churning, worrying. We already have a possible." Bolan stared for a moment at Schwarz. "After you've collected the Winters' intelligence, if you have time, find out what you can about a local wheel named Maxwell Thornton."
"Pretty big guy?" Blancanales inquired. Bolan replied, "Yeah, pretty big. Let's examine our problem here for a minute. We know the mob people in this area. We know pretty well where their interests lie and the type of routine operations they're running. We could blitz them ... just lay all over them ... and we could do that very well, I think. But that wouldn't put us any closer to the deeper enemy, and that is the one we really want this time. The Big Middle ... that's our target. First, though, we have to find them."
"And you think this guy Thornton may be one of this Big Middle?"
"As I said, he's a possible. Lucasi dropped the name on me. Maybe just as a stall, but sometimes a lot of truth seeps out of a deathbed stall. We have to check it out ... but very carefully. We don't want to get these guys to running ... just shaking a little."
Schwarz asked, "What if they won't shake?" Bolan's voice dropped an octave in the reply. "Then well have to burn them out."
The Politician wriggled under an involuntary shiver. He coughed into his fist and said, "I'm starting to understand why you didn't want this town on your hit parade, Sarge. It could get pretty nasty, couldn't it."
Bolan was staring at the tops of his fingers. Schwarz commented, "What happened to the good old days of simple warfare, eh?"
"They were left quite a ways down the trail," Bolan replied quietly. 'The thing gets more complicated all the time, Gadgets."
The expression in the electronics man's eyes reflected a new understanding of this quiet man in executioner black. This was a new Bolan, a wary and sophisticated warrior — essentially the same man he'd known earlier in the wars, but with that subtle shade of difference ... he was a man with a high mission.
"There'll still be plenty of fireworks before we close this one," Schwarz muttered.
"Bet on it," Blancanales growled. He sighed. "Well, I'd better be moving out. How much range we got on these shoulder phones?"
"Figure ten miles," Schwarz replied thoughtfully, his mind obviously on some other matter.
"Figure a lifetime," Bolan quietly corrected him.
In this business, Bolan knew, each beat of the heart was a lifetime in its own right.
"You guys be very careful," he commanded gruffly. "Play it to the numbers, and very close."
The three solemnly shook hands and went their separate ways.
A city under quiet siege awaited their heartbeats.
Blancanales still drove the bread truck he'd used in scouting the Winters home. Schwarz had coverted Bolan's "warwagon," a Ford Econoline van, into a mobile electronics workshop — and this remained as his base of operations.
Bolan himself was driving a "hot scout" — a speedy, high-maneuverable, European sports car.
This was their first chance to regroup and report since the hit on Sammy Simonetti at the airport. Each man dismounted from his vehicle and they held a council of war beside Bolan's roadrunner while they pulled concealing coveralls over their combat outfits.
"Sammy's bread is in the bread truck," Blancanales reported, grinning. "It counts out to exactly a hundred and five thousand. What do I do with it?"
"Keep it for the warchest," Bolan replied. "That's one of your problems for this operation. Anything Gadgets and I need, we'll come to you. You make all the buys. Less chancey that way."
Blancanales nodded. "Okay. How'd it go in Lucasi's palace?"
"Damn near disastrous," Bolan said. "The little man walked in while I was sounding his bedroom. You guys did a neat job outside, thanks. Probably saved the day."
"Did you get the bedroom bug planted?" Schwarz wondered.
"Yeah." The man from blood smiled. "In the headboard of his bed, while his wife slept. He's married to a kid ... but oh, what a kid!"
Blancanales snickered. "Maybe we could sell the tapes to an underground movie outfit."
Schwarz, all business, wanted to know, "Where'd you put the relay stations?"
"Window ledges, outside," Bolan reported. "All aligned at one-five-zero magnetic, per your instructions."
"Then we should have him snookered," Schwarz said. The gadgets-genius glanced at his watch and jotted a note in his surveillance log. "I'll have to cruise by and drain those storage banks in four hours. That's maximum storage, sorry."
Bolan had to grin. It was typical of Gadgets Schwarz to be "sorry" that he could not improve upon perfection. The little devices which he'd designed and built for this job were just about the ultimate in electronics surveillance, to Bolan's mind.
The pickup unit, consisting of a mike and a miniature radio transmitter, was about the size of a lady's wristwatch. The life in the tiny power cell was sufficient to provide 72 hours of continuous operation.
The "relay station," somewhat bulkier but still small enough for easy concealment, received and recorded the continuous broadcast from the pickup unit.
Upon command, the transmitter in the relay station would "unreel" the entire recording disc in about sixty seconds. That command would come from Schwarz's mobile console in the warwagon; he could cruise casually past the house once each four hours and "collect" the intelligence stored in the relay station ... four hours of electronic surveillance compressed into a sixty-second transmission keyed from the warwagon.
The re-recording, appropriately slowed and automatically performed within the master console, screened out all the silent zones or 'lapses" in the four-hour recording, preserving only the "audibles" for fast monitoring in the re-play. And Gadgets was "sorry" about that. They had followed Sammy Simonetti from the airport and used the courier's unhappy arrival at the Lucasi household as a diversion for their own penetration.
While Lucasi and his palace guard focused on the implications of Simonetti's busted play, Able Team slipped quietly in and wired the whole joint for sound.
"You've got four relays plus the phone tap," Bolan reminded Schwarz. "Can you collect them all on one pass?"
"No," Schwarz told him. "I could probably squeeze in two per pass but I'd rather not. A hundred yards is about the maximum reliable range for those relays. That gives me a hundred coming and a hundred going away, strict line-of-sight. I read that as one collection per pass, unless I just pull up and park."
"Pull up and park, then," Bolan suggested. "Change a tire, fiddle with your engine — anything that will cover. But I don't like five times past that house in the same vehicle."
"Okay, I'll park and drain," Schwarz agreed.
"Pol, you stay on Lucasi. Keep a log on his every move outside that house."
"You'll have it," Blancanales quietly replied.
"Did you get those zoom lenses for the camera?"
The Politician nodded his head in reply. "I could probably get a flea from a block away."
"Great. Try to get a picture of every one entering that house, plus every one he meets away from the house. Unless you're really tied into something fantastic, we meet back here in exactly four hours."
"What do I do in the meantime?" Gadgets wondered. "So far I've got a five minute job."
"Run over and drain the phone tap at Howlin' Marian's," Bolan instructed him. 'If you pick up something useful there, don't save it. Beep me on Able Channel."
"Okay. Where will you be?"
"I think I'll be at the Mission Bay marina."
"Who do we know there?" Politican asked.
Bolan smiled. "I hear that Tony Danger keeps a deep-water boat berthed there."
"I guess I never heard of Tony Danger," the Politician murmured.
"One of Lucasi's lieutenants," Bolan explained. "Narcotics, mainly."
"That's the guy," Schwarz commented, "was supposed to get the hundred grand."
"That's him," Bolan confirmed. "I believe he was setting up for a buy. Heroin or cocaine, probably. They usually time the black money shipments for a fast in and out. And I saw Tony Danger at Lucasi's awhile ago, pacing around and wringing his hands over the loss of that shipment. He was wearing a yachting cap."
Blancanales chuckled. "That was Tony Danger, eh?"
"That was him."
"He turned green when I laid that autopistol on him."
"When he's got it all together he can be pretty mean," Bolan warned. "He was one of DiGeorge's favorite triggermen."
Schwarz was wearing a faint frown. He asked, "How does all this tie into the colonel?"
"Maybe not at all," Bolan replied. "I'm just hoping to stir the pot a bit. No telling what might float up off the bottom."
Blancanales suggested, "Maybe some very straight big daddy with a dirty backside."
Bolan nodded. "That's what I'm hoping for. A hell of a lot of mob money is moving into the legit pipelines in this town. That's what put Winco in business ... black money. But it didn't move directly from Lucasi to Winters. There's a middleman somewhere, a guy with plenty of clout. If we're going to find Howlin' Marian's lost soul, then we've first got to find the Big Middle."
"Okay, I guess that makes sense," Schwarz said.
"The same guy is providing the umbrella for Lucasi and his hoods," Blancanales added.
"Probably," Bolan said. "It takes a certain kind of environment to support a Mafia entrenchment. If you find that entrenchment, then you know the environment is there also. So well try to knock some holes in the entrenchment. Maybe well get a glimpse of the environment as it rushes in to plug the holes."
"This is different than the L.A. operation," Schwarz decided.
"Quite a bit," Bolan agreed. "L.A. is a big roaring city, liberal, free-wheeling. That's enough natural environment right there to cover routine mob operations. This is a different sort of environment. Much smaller. Conservative, strong civic spirit, a proud town. Somebody in a position of power and trust within that establishment has to be dirty if the mob is operating here on the scale I suspect."
"Or maybe a bunch of somebodies," Blancanales growled.
"Maybe. Whoever or how many, we have to shake them up, get them churning, worrying. We already have a possible." Bolan stared for a moment at Schwarz. "After you've collected the Winters' intelligence, if you have time, find out what you can about a local wheel named Maxwell Thornton."
"Pretty big guy?" Blancanales inquired. Bolan replied, "Yeah, pretty big. Let's examine our problem here for a minute. We know the mob people in this area. We know pretty well where their interests lie and the type of routine operations they're running. We could blitz them ... just lay all over them ... and we could do that very well, I think. But that wouldn't put us any closer to the deeper enemy, and that is the one we really want this time. The Big Middle ... that's our target. First, though, we have to find them."
"And you think this guy Thornton may be one of this Big Middle?"
"As I said, he's a possible. Lucasi dropped the name on me. Maybe just as a stall, but sometimes a lot of truth seeps out of a deathbed stall. We have to check it out ... but very carefully. We don't want to get these guys to running ... just shaking a little."
Schwarz asked, "What if they won't shake?" Bolan's voice dropped an octave in the reply. "Then well have to burn them out."
The Politician wriggled under an involuntary shiver. He coughed into his fist and said, "I'm starting to understand why you didn't want this town on your hit parade, Sarge. It could get pretty nasty, couldn't it."
Bolan was staring at the tops of his fingers. Schwarz commented, "What happened to the good old days of simple warfare, eh?"
"They were left quite a ways down the trail," Bolan replied quietly. 'The thing gets more complicated all the time, Gadgets."
The expression in the electronics man's eyes reflected a new understanding of this quiet man in executioner black. This was a new Bolan, a wary and sophisticated warrior — essentially the same man he'd known earlier in the wars, but with that subtle shade of difference ... he was a man with a high mission.
"There'll still be plenty of fireworks before we close this one," Schwarz muttered.
"Bet on it," Blancanales growled. He sighed. "Well, I'd better be moving out. How much range we got on these shoulder phones?"
"Figure ten miles," Schwarz replied thoughtfully, his mind obviously on some other matter.
"Figure a lifetime," Bolan quietly corrected him.
In this business, Bolan knew, each beat of the heart was a lifetime in its own right.
"You guys be very careful," he commanded gruffly. "Play it to the numbers, and very close."
The three solemnly shook hands and went their separate ways.
A city under quiet siege awaited their heartbeats.
6
Hardcase revisited
The daytime routine was barely underway at the Los Angeles Hall of Justice when Captain Tim Braddock found himself in an interesting telephone conversation with his counterpart at San Diego.
"What makes you think you've got Bolan down there?" he asked John Tatum, homicide chief at the southern city.
'It's just an uneasy feeling, at this point," Tatum replied in a troubled voice. "I've never had so much as a smell of the guy before, though ... I guess I'm hoping you can tell me I'm all wet."
"Well—" Braddock sighed. He and Tatum had been friends for many years. "What've you got, John?"
'Item One, an apparent suicide. Let's talk about that one first. Last night, late. Retired army general, once got a lot of press for his colorful combat activities in Vietnam. Lately head of Winco Industries."
"Howlin' Harlan Winters," Braddock said with a heavy voice.
"You knew him?"
"Not personally. Go on."
"He put an army Colt to his head and pulled the trigger, or so the evidence would indicate. Paraffin tests are positive — all the routine checks and physical evidence support the suicide angle. Coroner agrees."
"Did he leave a note?"
"No note. The county is ready to close it as a suicide, but...."
Braddock lit a cigarette and sucked in a lungful of smoke, exhaled violently and asked, "But?"
"Well ... Winters was a bachelor. Lived alone, except for a niece. She discovered the body, and — "
"How do you figure Bolan in this? What's your Item Two?"
"I'll take the last question first, it's easier. Somebody pulled a heist on a shipment of cash skimmed from a Vegas casino. Happened just a few hours after Winters died. One of our undercover men phoned in the report a couple hours ago. He says that Ben Lucasi is frothing at the mouth and importing triggermen from all over. Our operative couldn't get the full story, but he says it smells of a Bolan hit."
"Yeah, he likes to hit them in their money bags," Braddock mused. "That's all you have on that?"
"That's it."
"Okay, back to Item One. You think Winters was murdered, I take it. Is the niece a suspect?"
"Hell no, but Bolan is."
Braddock sighed. "Okay, let's have it."
"Let me background you a bit first. Winters had this beach-pad out near Del Mar. You know that area. Fifty percent of his property line fronts on a sheer cliff overlooking the ocean. The only way up from the beach is via an elevator which is controlled from above. In other words, no visitors from below without an invitation from above."
"I have the picture," Braddock said. "But isn't Del Mar out of your jurisdiction?"
"Technically, sure. But we got called in for routine consultation and ... well... look, Tim, if Bolan is operating anywhere between Tijuana and L.A., don't talk to me about police jurisdictions."
Braddock chuckled drily and said, "Well said, John. And welcome to the club."
The San Diego cop was becoming flustered. He growled, "Let me lay this out for you, will you? Now look, half the Winters property is secure from trespassers by the cliff. Okay. The other half is double-fenced and a pair of Doberman man-eaters roam a no-man's-land between those fence-rows. Those guys are mean as hell — a couple of very unhappy sheriffs deputies will attest to that — and there simply is no way past them without calling the house and getting an escort through the fang zone.
"Okay, this is getting interesting," Braddock commented.
"Yeah. Just wait. Miss Winters says that there were no callers last night. That is, no visitors. She doubles as a girl-Friday, housekeeper, chief-bottle-washer and all the rest for the general. She — "
"How much rest?" Braddock wanted to know.
"What? Oh, nothing like that, Tim. It was more like a father-daughter relationship. Winters raised the girl. Parents died when she was a tot. Army brat. He dragged her around the world with him. I checked her out thoroughly. She's clean."
"Okay. Go on. What about Bolan?"
"Where was I? Okay, no official visitors. She went to bed at eleven o'clock or thereabouts. The dogs were on station. The general was working in his study. At a little past midnight, she was awakened by a disturbance outside. The dogs were snarling and carrying on. There also may have been a gunshot. She's not sure on that point. She ran downstairs and found her uncle slumped in a chair near the fireplace, half of his head blown away. Claims that she fainted, doesn't know how long she was out. Her story comes confused along in here. When she came around again, she says, the dogs were still at it. Suddenly they got quiet. A minute later, this man walks into the study. Are you ready?"
Braddock growled, "I'm ready. Hit me."
'This was a tall man, well built, athletic. She says he walked in like a cat. He was wearing a black combat outfit. Hands and face smeared with some black cosmetic. She further describes him as quote, guns and things strapped all over him, unquote."
Braddock found himself leaning tensely forward in his chair. He said, "Now wait a minute, John."
"No, hear it all first. She — "
"This was after she'd found her uncle dead?"
"Like I said, it's confused. But that's what she says. The guy walks in, looks at the dead man, gathers up a sheaf of papers from the desk-memoirs, she says — puts them in the fireplace, and sets fire to them. Then he simply walks out."
"Bullshit," Braddock growled.
"That's her story, and we can't shake it."
"Did he leave a marksman's medal at the scene?"
"No."
"Then he didn't kill the man," Braddock declared.
"How can you leap to a conclusion like that?"
"Look, you called me as a Bolan expert, right? I'll leap to any damn conclusion I wish. When Bolan kills he leaves no doubt that he was there."
"Okay, forget that angle for a moment. Maybe Bolan didn't actually kill Winters. Maybe it was a suicide, just as all the evidence indicates. Other than that, Tim ... does this sound like Bolan?"
"Here and there," Braddock growled. "Did you have the woman look at mugs?"
"Sure. Nothing positive. She said it could be the same man. Kept talking about his eyes."
Braddock sighed. He said, softly, "Shit."
"Does that mean I've got the problem of the century in my town?"
"First, let me straighten this out. Is the woman saying that the guy was in the house all the while? That he could have been there when Winters died?"
Tatum replied, "No, I didn't get that from her statement. She's apparently convinced that Winters did indeed kill himself. Even said that she had lately been concerned that something like this may happen. Said her uncle had been severely depressed, moody — obviously under some great strain."
"Maybe he knew that Bolan was stalking him," Braddock mused. "Would that be a valid theory?"
"Nothing official," the San Diego cop replied, "but I've heard a few whispers about Winco Industries. They were under investigation once — the federal boys — but apparently nothing came of it."
"You said the dogs were still alive and active when your men got there?"
"Yeah. Very much so. So you tell me, Tim. Is Bolan good enough to climb a hundred feet of sheer rock?"
"He's no fly," Braddock replied thoughtfully. "Did you test the dogs?"
"For what?"
"Drugs."
The line between L.A. and San Diego hummed through a brief silence, then the embarrassed voice from the south admitted, "No. But I'll get a pathologist out there right away."
"That's how he'd do it," Braddock was thoughtfully deciding. "If it were Bolan, he'd know the dogs were there long before he started his move against the place. And he'd come prepared for them. You ... uh ... already know, I suppose, about the old connection between Bolan and Winters."
Another embarrassed silence, then: "What connection?"
"We ran a total make on Bolan while he was in our town," Braddock explained. "I talked to Winters myself, part of the routine. He was Bolan's combat C.O. in Vietnam for awhile."
The silence became oppressive. Finally the man in San Diego said, "You never cleared that with me, Tim."
"Sorry, there was no time for niceties. Winters wasn't suspected of any involvement with Bolan at the time. I was just looking for background on the guy. I set up the meet at the Del Mar country club. We had a drink; he told me what he knew about Bolan, supposedly; I thanked him and left. Had a hell of a hot war storming through my own town at the time, you may remember."
"Yeah," came the sour reply. "And now it's an odds-on favorite that I've got one coming up in my town."
"Could be. But don't push the theory too far, John. The impression I got from Winters, I recall, was that he was holding out on me. The height-weight-serial number routine. He gave me very damned little. Later I discovered via other sources that he and Bolan had been very close friends, forget the difference in rank."
The San Diego cop sighed heavily. He said, quietly, "How about giving me the benefit of your mistakes. If you had it to do over again, how would you have handled your Bolan invasion?"
Braddock replied, "Okay, I accept the dig. But I wouldn't change anything. Except maybe I'd move a bit faster than I did against the mob. I suggest you do that. Hit 'em with anything you can think of, but get them behind bars. And keep them there until the guy gets tired of waiting and drifts on out."
"That's a cop-out."
"Call it what you like. Just remember, Bolan doesn't stay long in one place. Part of his survival M.O. Hit quick and get out. Disappears for awhile, pops up again far away for another quick hit and git."
"You know how long I can keep these boys behind bars, Tim? Just as long as it takes their damned lawyers to hit me with a briefcase full of legal papers."
"Sure, I know that. So you turn them loose and grab them again as they're climbing into their cars. For spitting on the sidewalk, for making an obscene gesture, for sweating. And you keep it up until — "
"Yeah I know the routine," Tatum declared wearily.
"I don't know what else to tell you, John."
"You told me precisely what I did not want you to tell me, Tim."
Braddock said, "Maybe the Winters girl is more confused than you think. I'll say this much: it doesn't sound like the usual Bolan thing. I mean, when the guy hits your town, you seldom have to wonder if he's really there."
"So I hear," Tatum commented sourly.
Another voice entered the telephone hookup, a voice which sounded as though it were accustomed to respectful listening. "Captain Braddock. This is Chief Larson."
Braddock said, "Yes sir."
"I'm sitting across the desk from John. Excuse me for not announcing my presence earlier but I thought it better that you approach the question without official intimidation. It's time for that now. You're considered the foremost authority in the West on the Bolan problem. I'm asking you now for an official opinion. Is the Executioner operating in this city?"
Braddock sighed. "I'd have to say, yes sir, it sounds that way. He'll probably confirm it, very loudly, at most any time now."
"All right. Ill be talking to your chief but I suppose I should clear it with you first. I'd like you down here with us, in an advisory capacity."
It was getting to be a habit. Braddock had hardly unpacked from the trek to Boston.
He sighed and told the San Diego official, "I'il have to beg off, Sir. My work here is stacked up around my ears. I think we could spring another man, though — and, actually, he's been much closer to Bolan than I have."
"I don't want you unless you're willing, Captain. You won't reconsider?"
"I'm sorry, sir. The department wouldn't allow it even if I wanted to go. If you'll make the request via official channels, though, I'll see that you're provided the best man available." "All right. I'll rely on that, Captain." Tatum chimed in with, "Tim, thanks." "You bet," Braddock replied, and broke the connection.
He immediately poked his intercom and told his secretary, "Run down Sergeant Lyons for me — Carl Lyons. He should be in Organized Crime Division. Tell him to grab a toothbrush and be in my office within the hour. Then set me up for five minutes in the Chiefs office — make it urgent business conference — and request that Captain Mira of OCD be present."
"What makes you think you've got Bolan down there?" he asked John Tatum, homicide chief at the southern city.
'It's just an uneasy feeling, at this point," Tatum replied in a troubled voice. "I've never had so much as a smell of the guy before, though ... I guess I'm hoping you can tell me I'm all wet."
"Well—" Braddock sighed. He and Tatum had been friends for many years. "What've you got, John?"
'Item One, an apparent suicide. Let's talk about that one first. Last night, late. Retired army general, once got a lot of press for his colorful combat activities in Vietnam. Lately head of Winco Industries."
"Howlin' Harlan Winters," Braddock said with a heavy voice.
"You knew him?"
"Not personally. Go on."
"He put an army Colt to his head and pulled the trigger, or so the evidence would indicate. Paraffin tests are positive — all the routine checks and physical evidence support the suicide angle. Coroner agrees."
"Did he leave a note?"
"No note. The county is ready to close it as a suicide, but...."
Braddock lit a cigarette and sucked in a lungful of smoke, exhaled violently and asked, "But?"
"Well ... Winters was a bachelor. Lived alone, except for a niece. She discovered the body, and — "
"How do you figure Bolan in this? What's your Item Two?"
"I'll take the last question first, it's easier. Somebody pulled a heist on a shipment of cash skimmed from a Vegas casino. Happened just a few hours after Winters died. One of our undercover men phoned in the report a couple hours ago. He says that Ben Lucasi is frothing at the mouth and importing triggermen from all over. Our operative couldn't get the full story, but he says it smells of a Bolan hit."
"Yeah, he likes to hit them in their money bags," Braddock mused. "That's all you have on that?"
"That's it."
"Okay, back to Item One. You think Winters was murdered, I take it. Is the niece a suspect?"
"Hell no, but Bolan is."
Braddock sighed. "Okay, let's have it."
"Let me background you a bit first. Winters had this beach-pad out near Del Mar. You know that area. Fifty percent of his property line fronts on a sheer cliff overlooking the ocean. The only way up from the beach is via an elevator which is controlled from above. In other words, no visitors from below without an invitation from above."
"I have the picture," Braddock said. "But isn't Del Mar out of your jurisdiction?"
"Technically, sure. But we got called in for routine consultation and ... well... look, Tim, if Bolan is operating anywhere between Tijuana and L.A., don't talk to me about police jurisdictions."
Braddock chuckled drily and said, "Well said, John. And welcome to the club."
The San Diego cop was becoming flustered. He growled, "Let me lay this out for you, will you? Now look, half the Winters property is secure from trespassers by the cliff. Okay. The other half is double-fenced and a pair of Doberman man-eaters roam a no-man's-land between those fence-rows. Those guys are mean as hell — a couple of very unhappy sheriffs deputies will attest to that — and there simply is no way past them without calling the house and getting an escort through the fang zone.
"Okay, this is getting interesting," Braddock commented.
"Yeah. Just wait. Miss Winters says that there were no callers last night. That is, no visitors. She doubles as a girl-Friday, housekeeper, chief-bottle-washer and all the rest for the general. She — "
"How much rest?" Braddock wanted to know.
"What? Oh, nothing like that, Tim. It was more like a father-daughter relationship. Winters raised the girl. Parents died when she was a tot. Army brat. He dragged her around the world with him. I checked her out thoroughly. She's clean."
"Okay. Go on. What about Bolan?"
"Where was I? Okay, no official visitors. She went to bed at eleven o'clock or thereabouts. The dogs were on station. The general was working in his study. At a little past midnight, she was awakened by a disturbance outside. The dogs were snarling and carrying on. There also may have been a gunshot. She's not sure on that point. She ran downstairs and found her uncle slumped in a chair near the fireplace, half of his head blown away. Claims that she fainted, doesn't know how long she was out. Her story comes confused along in here. When she came around again, she says, the dogs were still at it. Suddenly they got quiet. A minute later, this man walks into the study. Are you ready?"
Braddock growled, "I'm ready. Hit me."
'This was a tall man, well built, athletic. She says he walked in like a cat. He was wearing a black combat outfit. Hands and face smeared with some black cosmetic. She further describes him as quote, guns and things strapped all over him, unquote."
Braddock found himself leaning tensely forward in his chair. He said, "Now wait a minute, John."
"No, hear it all first. She — "
"This was after she'd found her uncle dead?"
"Like I said, it's confused. But that's what she says. The guy walks in, looks at the dead man, gathers up a sheaf of papers from the desk-memoirs, she says — puts them in the fireplace, and sets fire to them. Then he simply walks out."
"Bullshit," Braddock growled.
"That's her story, and we can't shake it."
"Did he leave a marksman's medal at the scene?"
"No."
"Then he didn't kill the man," Braddock declared.
"How can you leap to a conclusion like that?"
"Look, you called me as a Bolan expert, right? I'll leap to any damn conclusion I wish. When Bolan kills he leaves no doubt that he was there."
"Okay, forget that angle for a moment. Maybe Bolan didn't actually kill Winters. Maybe it was a suicide, just as all the evidence indicates. Other than that, Tim ... does this sound like Bolan?"
"Here and there," Braddock growled. "Did you have the woman look at mugs?"
"Sure. Nothing positive. She said it could be the same man. Kept talking about his eyes."
Braddock sighed. He said, softly, "Shit."
"Does that mean I've got the problem of the century in my town?"
"First, let me straighten this out. Is the woman saying that the guy was in the house all the while? That he could have been there when Winters died?"
Tatum replied, "No, I didn't get that from her statement. She's apparently convinced that Winters did indeed kill himself. Even said that she had lately been concerned that something like this may happen. Said her uncle had been severely depressed, moody — obviously under some great strain."
"Maybe he knew that Bolan was stalking him," Braddock mused. "Would that be a valid theory?"
"Nothing official," the San Diego cop replied, "but I've heard a few whispers about Winco Industries. They were under investigation once — the federal boys — but apparently nothing came of it."
"You said the dogs were still alive and active when your men got there?"
"Yeah. Very much so. So you tell me, Tim. Is Bolan good enough to climb a hundred feet of sheer rock?"
"He's no fly," Braddock replied thoughtfully. "Did you test the dogs?"
"For what?"
"Drugs."
The line between L.A. and San Diego hummed through a brief silence, then the embarrassed voice from the south admitted, "No. But I'll get a pathologist out there right away."
"That's how he'd do it," Braddock was thoughtfully deciding. "If it were Bolan, he'd know the dogs were there long before he started his move against the place. And he'd come prepared for them. You ... uh ... already know, I suppose, about the old connection between Bolan and Winters."
Another embarrassed silence, then: "What connection?"
"We ran a total make on Bolan while he was in our town," Braddock explained. "I talked to Winters myself, part of the routine. He was Bolan's combat C.O. in Vietnam for awhile."
The silence became oppressive. Finally the man in San Diego said, "You never cleared that with me, Tim."
"Sorry, there was no time for niceties. Winters wasn't suspected of any involvement with Bolan at the time. I was just looking for background on the guy. I set up the meet at the Del Mar country club. We had a drink; he told me what he knew about Bolan, supposedly; I thanked him and left. Had a hell of a hot war storming through my own town at the time, you may remember."
"Yeah," came the sour reply. "And now it's an odds-on favorite that I've got one coming up in my town."
"Could be. But don't push the theory too far, John. The impression I got from Winters, I recall, was that he was holding out on me. The height-weight-serial number routine. He gave me very damned little. Later I discovered via other sources that he and Bolan had been very close friends, forget the difference in rank."
The San Diego cop sighed heavily. He said, quietly, "How about giving me the benefit of your mistakes. If you had it to do over again, how would you have handled your Bolan invasion?"
Braddock replied, "Okay, I accept the dig. But I wouldn't change anything. Except maybe I'd move a bit faster than I did against the mob. I suggest you do that. Hit 'em with anything you can think of, but get them behind bars. And keep them there until the guy gets tired of waiting and drifts on out."
"That's a cop-out."
"Call it what you like. Just remember, Bolan doesn't stay long in one place. Part of his survival M.O. Hit quick and get out. Disappears for awhile, pops up again far away for another quick hit and git."
"You know how long I can keep these boys behind bars, Tim? Just as long as it takes their damned lawyers to hit me with a briefcase full of legal papers."
"Sure, I know that. So you turn them loose and grab them again as they're climbing into their cars. For spitting on the sidewalk, for making an obscene gesture, for sweating. And you keep it up until — "
"Yeah I know the routine," Tatum declared wearily.
"I don't know what else to tell you, John."
"You told me precisely what I did not want you to tell me, Tim."
Braddock said, "Maybe the Winters girl is more confused than you think. I'll say this much: it doesn't sound like the usual Bolan thing. I mean, when the guy hits your town, you seldom have to wonder if he's really there."
"So I hear," Tatum commented sourly.
Another voice entered the telephone hookup, a voice which sounded as though it were accustomed to respectful listening. "Captain Braddock. This is Chief Larson."
Braddock said, "Yes sir."
"I'm sitting across the desk from John. Excuse me for not announcing my presence earlier but I thought it better that you approach the question without official intimidation. It's time for that now. You're considered the foremost authority in the West on the Bolan problem. I'm asking you now for an official opinion. Is the Executioner operating in this city?"
Braddock sighed. "I'd have to say, yes sir, it sounds that way. He'll probably confirm it, very loudly, at most any time now."
"All right. Ill be talking to your chief but I suppose I should clear it with you first. I'd like you down here with us, in an advisory capacity."
It was getting to be a habit. Braddock had hardly unpacked from the trek to Boston.
He sighed and told the San Diego official, "I'il have to beg off, Sir. My work here is stacked up around my ears. I think we could spring another man, though — and, actually, he's been much closer to Bolan than I have."
"I don't want you unless you're willing, Captain. You won't reconsider?"
"I'm sorry, sir. The department wouldn't allow it even if I wanted to go. If you'll make the request via official channels, though, I'll see that you're provided the best man available." "All right. I'll rely on that, Captain." Tatum chimed in with, "Tim, thanks." "You bet," Braddock replied, and broke the connection.
He immediately poked his intercom and told his secretary, "Run down Sergeant Lyons for me — Carl Lyons. He should be in Organized Crime Division. Tell him to grab a toothbrush and be in my office within the hour. Then set me up for five minutes in the Chiefs office — make it urgent business conference — and request that Captain Mira of OCD be present."